


albedo

by beastofthesky



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares - enemy type, Post-Break Up But They Didn't Know They Were Dating In The First Place, Season of the Undying, Tension - Ostensibly Of The Sexual Variety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 12:47:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20995040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastofthesky/pseuds/beastofthesky
Summary: Hunt for scrap on the Moon and you might just run into something worthwhile.





	albedo

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to all the folks creating shin/drifter content for reminding me just how much i love enemies with benefits and idiots being idiots. i’ve been lurking here for, oh, ten or so months? and figured it was about my time to contribute to The Content™. big thank-you to key for helping me out when i lost my thread entirely!

The Moon sucks.

This is a fact. Uncontestable. The Drifter yanks his sword out of a blood-red Acolyte and, for his trouble, ends up covered in dust and worm guts.

"Fuckin' bullshit," he mutters under his breath. His Ghost stares at him balefully. "What the fuck."

Moon's open, they said. Fun times, they said. New Gambit arena would be great, they said. Well, this marks the last time Drifter will _ever _take advice from any of his regulars.

Sure, a new arena here would be fun: there's a nice open area east of Archer's Line with a huge crack through it and some interesting cliffs, lots of squirrelly places for his players to learn to avoid or manipulate. But this Nightmare crap? Not worth _any_ of the business a new arena would bring.

He's seen enough bizarre shit in his lives that he doesn't necessarily spook easy. But every time he walks too close to a crack or cave and a disembodied voice screams _please, help me, I can't hold them off?_ Wispy, featureless faces turning down to stare at him? Nah. That's it. That's where he draws the line.

Guardians are a fucked-up bunch. He watches a Titan squat down in front of a screaming Nightmare echo, head cocked, and they nod at the swirling mass of shadowy red before trotting off and neatly killing three Vandals in a row, pop pop pop.

Drifter shakes his head and moves on. He's seen it fuckin' _all_, up here. Guardians talking to the Nightmares, doing little errands for them, killing them, chasing them, _dissecting_ them in one memorable case— this whole rock is fucked, and he's done here.

He trudges on, skirting around Sanctuary to the LZ he'd set up to the south. At least there are fewer Guardians doing bizarre shit out this way. And maybe it ain't _all_ bad. Helium filaments had been a bitch to get before – he'd had to wheedle and cajole the older cohorts into selling him their old gear – but it's open season now, shit’s everywhere. And plenty of old junk and abandoned supplies to gut for mods. And especially now that the older armor styles are making a comeback, his players are gonna start demanding mod compatibility for the Prime sets…

He's lost in thought, about 50 different blueprints floating around in his brain, when something distant catches in his peripheral vision.

He slows his pace, just slightly, and scans the horizon. There: on top of a ridge, a human silhouette, feet planted firmly on the ground, definitely not reddish or shadowy or slumped over or fuckin' creepy in any other way. Mid-length cloak, hood up. A small pinprick of light marking a Ghost. Broad shoulders, straight back. The Guardian's head turns, and the sunlight reflecting flat off the regolith lights up the profile of an old helmet. A _familiar _helmet.

"Oh, no fuckin' way," Drifter snarls under his breath. He transmats a scout rifle into his hands – no sense wasting better ammo on this – and looks down the scope.

It's still quite a distance. And yeah, anyone can wear whatever armor they find. But he's sure enough about this that he's willing to try the one surefire way he knows to get an asshole's attention.

Is it a bad idea to just _shoot_ a Guardian on a moon full of fuck-knows-what? Yes. Does satisfying his angry curiosity supercede that? Also yes.

Night Watch fits snug against his shoulder, the weight of the counterbalance mod adding nice heft, and the rifle snaps softly as he fires. The silhouette on the ridge staggers, then turns, and then, immediately, instantaneously, Drifter knows nothing but blinding heat.

* * *

"What the _fuck_," is the first thing out of his mouth when he's done being resurrected.

"That's my line," snarls a voice, a familiar voice, and Drifter knows he's both correct and fucked when a gloved finger jabs in his direction.

Shin is still smouldering, heat warping the thin atmo around his shoulders. There's a scorch mark on one side of his chest, nanoweave slowly knitting itself back together.

"What, d'you want me to shout _hey, Shin fuckin' Malphur, Man with the Golden Gun, look over here_ for everyone and everything to hear?" he spits back. Phantom heat still burns his shoulder, and he resists the urge to rub it. "Shoulda fuckin' done it and left you to the Hive or whatever other shit's crawlin' around. God damn. Forget it."

He dusts off his cloak - this white dust is a fucking _nightmare_ \- and turns around. Fuckin' _forget it_. His LZ is only a short walk away but he's got half a mind to head back to Sanctuary anyways and walk 'round the whole damn moon instead of dealing with this.

He's not too proud to admit he's got regrets. Shin's one of 'em. Principal among them, actually.

He grimaces behind his helmet and stomps on, keeping Shin's still (and still dangerous) form in his peripheral vision as he marches back towards the ridge Sanctuary perches on.

"Wait."

The word comes through on an open frequency when he's about 100 meters away, connection crackling. Drifter grits his teeth, but keeps walking.

"What," he grunts back, against his better judgement.

"_Wait_," Shin repeats, and then Drifter is aware of the soft pounding of feet behind him, boots impacting on fine regolith. He turns, hand hovering towards the rifle on his back, and Shin slows to a walk about 10 meters away.

"_What_," Drifter barks. His fingers brush against Breakneck's stock.

"Don't fucking shoot me again," Shin snaps, and raises his hands.

"_You_ shot _me_," Drifter exclaims, affronted.

"You shot me first," Shin fires back furiously.

Ah. Right.

"...You got me there," Drifter concedes, and shrugs, the motion easy. He's got no plans to let go of his rifle, even though Shin is quicker on the draw. Always. Unquestionably. But like hell he's gonna go 'round unarmed in front of him.

They edge into an awkward standoff: Shin with his hands raised, guarded, and Drifter with his fingers twitch-close to his gun.

In the end, Drifter's the one who offers the olive branch, though it's shaped more like a lump of charcoal.

"I thought you'd left," he says evenly. "_Left_ left."

"I did."

Drifter bites his tongue before he fires off something suitable for a spurned lover in a drama. Instead he says nothing, because he was neither spurned nor lover, and he waits. Shins hands drop lower, just a few inches.

"I'm breaking another promise," he says. "To a mutual friend." He nods down at Drifter's hip, where Malfeasance's grip juts sharp out of its holster, and the tilt of his helmet lingers there. (She looks mighty pretty in jade, Drifter will give him that much. She's a gorgeous gun regardless, but the jade and red together is somethin' else.) "I said I'd leave, but here I am."

"Mind explainin' why?" Drifter asks warily.

Shin tips his head up towards Sanctuary this time.

"Same thing as ever. The hunt." He drops his hands all the way, but Drifter ain't fooled, even when Shin prompts him with a low and impatient, "_Drifter."_

"Wait." Wait wait wait. "Oh-ho, brother, don't tell me you're caught up in this bullshit too," he says, taking another step back. "That's it? That's what you come crawling back for? These _Nightmares?_"

“You tellin’ me they don’t make you feel just a little concerned?” Shin’s voice is skeptical.

Drifter lets out a loud, brittle laugh.

“Malphur, these vape clouds ain’t got shit on what’s knockin’ around in my brain,” he says. “Get back to me when you’ve seen the end of the universe.”

Shin gives him a long look.

“Come with me,” he says.

“Hell no. Why should I?”

Shin just shrugs, which is sensible, so Drifter hates it.

“Got anything better to do?”

* * *

Drifter has been following Shin for near two hours now, trying and mostly failing to not feel petulant about it. They don’t really talk, for which he’s grateful, because he doesn’t trust himself to not say something that’ll make Shin poof. Again.

Not that he cares. Asshole can disappear all he wants. Drifter can go back to resting easy, knowing that the Man with the Golden Gun isn’t dangerously close. Shin’s spent more than enough time haunting that old alley, the Annex, his arenas, his bed.

He was _glad_ when he heard – well, inferred – that Shin was outta everyone’s hair. That sad, gentle look on his favorite hellion Guardian’s face when he’d complimented that new cannon, when the response had been a quiet confirmation that it was done, the hunt was over, and this beautiful, delicate weapon was the end and the beginning. It had been _good_ news. It had been _great_ news. And Drifter had _celebrated_ because it was _fine_.

And now Shin is back and Drifter is pissed that he’s still unable to tear his eyes off the way Shin’s shoulders move under his cloak. Just like the old days. Scouting the first Gambit arenas. Shooting Fallen. Not quite talking, not quite silent. Drifter scowls behind his helmet and picks off another Marauder.

Ahead of him, Shin slows and raises a hand in silent warning. One small thing Drifter had learned once the jig was up and the Renegade’s identity was made clear: Shin Malphur never draws a weapon until he’s ready to take the shot. He walks empty-handed into every fight, and wins. The Renegade, Vale, Orsa – none of them had ever strolled around with such open boldness. This, now, is Shin as he is. His hand rests a comfortable distance away from his hip, fingers half-curled. Drifter snorts quietly. He’s still itchy without the Last Word. Still hasn’t settled on a cannon that suits him as well as the legend did. Still leaves that holster empty.

“Of course,” Shin murmurs, apropos of nothing, then slows to a stop.

Drifter takes a look around. They’re on top of a high, flat ridge; there’s a deep crack and some ancient slumped rock leading down to some Hive-lookin’ shit, a gaping doorway that looks full of teeth. Idly, he lines up some ideas for dinner with what he’s got aboard the Derelict. Stew sounds good. Maybe soup. Something hot and hearty, not feelin’ spicy food at the moment.

“Follow me if you want,” Shin says, and points at a swirling mass of red and shadow-black further down the ridge. “That’s mine.”

“Ooh, your own personal Nightmare?” Drifter sneers. “Cute.”

Shin tosses a look over his shoulder which Drifter, unfortunately, can still picture clearly on the face under his helmet.

“Follow if you want,” he just repeats, though there’s a note of flat annoyance in his voice that Drifter marks down as being a win for himself.

"I'm good back here, brother," Drifter says easily, pointedly rejecting the unspoken _come with me_, and sits himself down on a nearby rock, albeit one with a perfect line of sight on whatever it is Shin's about to get himself into. "You go ahead."

Shin levels another long look at him, then turns and walks forward. He's about 50 meters from Drifter, 20 away from the splotch when there's a howl and a maelstrom of movement. Something stirs in Drifter then, some resonant frequency drawn out by these shadows; something deep and primal, something he hasn't felt since the last time he went by a different name. He pushes it away and watches.

The swirl of red condenses into… a man.

Not Oryx, not Atheon, not Riven or Crota or Xol or any other big baddie. Just a man. Broad-shouldered and well-built, dressed in dark, sharp armor.

And then it clicks.

“Holy hell,” he mutters.

Shin lets out a huff that’s nearly almost a laugh. Drifter has just enough time to notice it came in on a private channel before Shin switches off to an open broadcast and falls silent.

The man stands, perfectly still, at ease, and Shin mirrors him.

“Been awhile,” Shin finally says.

The man – _The Man_, first to take the name Drifter discarded, boogeyman and murderer and savior alike – replies with a soft laugh, almost gentle.

"Thought that was my line," he says. Shin bows his head, conceding. "Though here we are again. Your Light. My end."

Shin lets the silence stretch on before answering. Drifter is on his feet, unsure of when that happened, fingers resting on the cord wrapped carefully around the barrel of Malfeasance, palm fitted against the grip.

"Not quite," Shin replies. "Your end was a beginning. My victory, an unmaking."

The congealed Darkness masquerading as Yor cocks its head, and Drifter gets the awful impression that it's smiling.

"And this whole time, you've believed—”

What follows next comes so fast it takes Drifter several painfully long seconds to comprehend. No fanfare, no warning.

Shin stands with one shoulder canted towards the sluggishly dissipating scraps of reddish shadow, Light still streaming over him, burning bright as he lowers the Golden Gun, almost too much to look at. Shoulders pulled back, standing tall, chin lifted. The snuffed-out shadows leave a low hum in their wake that thrums in his chest, an echoing rush of whispers Drifter hasn't heard in a long, long time.

It's easy to think of Shin as a boogeyman too. As the one who hunts people like him, as a vigilante with a dangerously personal idea of what justice should look like. As a person. As someone who gets pissy and doesn't sleep enough and is alarmingly, annoyingly picky about his weapons.

But Shin Malphur is a legend. Dredgen Vale a whispered curse. And here, between his own fire and the dark shadows stretching from his boots, he is both, and it is blinding.

Shin turns, slow but not hesitant, and as he walks up Drifter finds himself rooted to the spot; whether out of stubbornness or something more primal, he can’t say. Shin raises his hand in a smooth arc and Drifter finds himself— blank. Unthinking, unfeeling. If this is it, then it’s it. No plans, no backups, no exit strategies matter. Just that burning barrel cutting through the moon’s thin atmosphere. There’s a snap, sharp and loud, and Drifter feels hot fire for the second time that day, and for the last time.

...followed by a screech of metal, and a muffled clatter. He whips around – he is extremely not dead and _fucking confused_ – and finds the disintegrating, melted remains of what _looks_ like a Minotaur. But that’s fuckin’ absurd, because the Vex have never been spotted on Luna. Ever.

When he turns back, Shin is in front of him, and before he can open his mouth to say something, say _anything_, Shin reaches for his belt.

“You mind?” Shin asks, low, helmet tipped to one side.

It takes Drifter a second or two to realize that Shin’s palm is resting on the grip of Malfeasance. And finally, _finally_, something familiar beats its way through the inherent shock of the past, oh, thirty or so seconds.

“Only if you ask nice,” Drifter replies, knowing Shin can read the tone in his voice loud and clear, and he pointedly shifts his weight. “Little ironic, ain’t it?”

Shin’s fingers are burning hot even through layers of armor as he steps in, closes his grip around the cannon, and eases it out. He holds it so that the sunlight between them catches on the thin, luminescent jade of the barrel, the bright dye of the cord, the worn leather of Shin’s glove. It’s a nice gun. The way Shin stands is nicer.

“Nah.” Shin spins it ‘round his finger once, reflexively, then drops it into the holster at his waist. “Way I see it, you made it for me. I’m just not usin’ it as intended.”

“You’re a bastard,” Drifter says. “You deserve as much death as you deliver, you know that?”

He finally yanks Breakneck off of his back, not-so-accidentally hitting Shin’s arm with the barrel as he pulls the rifle into his hands. There’s static gathering off to the side, and a growing, insistent prickle in his chest that something is… not quite right.

“I know,” Shin says, so quietly Drifter barely hears it over the growing interference on comms.

Drifter opens his mouth to say more, and a fat slug of Void energy slams into the ground next to them, showering them both in dust.

...Void energy. No Shriekers around, no Acolytes. No Hive at all, actually.

“Oh hell,” he says, and steps back. “Vex.”

“Follow me,” Shin says for the third time, and then sprints straight for the Hive-y door downslope.

“You’re outta your Lightfucked god damn mind,” Drifter snarls under his breath, and follows him again.

* * *

Shin holds Malfeasance like it’s an extension of himself. It makes sense, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less weird. Or unsettling.

They don’t talk, catching their breath aboard Shin’s ship, and again Drifter prefers it that way. Reminds him of when things were… maybe not simpler, but different. When they were a Dark Age drifter and a renegade Hunter and nothing more and nothing less.

Drifter watches Shin wipe down Malfeasance’s long, slender barrel with practiced motions, elbows resting on his knees, and he shakes the last bit of Hive dust and bones and bits off the hem of his coat. There’s an itch under his skin, and it’s probably definitely gotta do with the fact that despite all logic, despite everything, Drifter still _wants him_. Couple’a fucks – well, maybe more than just a _couple_, and maybe a few other things, like all the times he saved Shin’s sorry ass, and Shin saved his, and the mess with that Praxic hothead, and—

Absolutely fuckin’ pathetic, is what it is.

And Shin started it, anyways.

Drifter sighs and leans back in the rickety workshop chair, letting his robes fall loose just an inch or two, knees spread. That’s it. Bait set. Anything more than this won’t be on him. And if this is it, then fuck it. Drifter can sleep easy tonight knowing he’ll do everything in his power to never see Shin fuckin’ Malphur ever again, and to hell with spurner-lover nonsense.

Shin’s eyes flick up at the movement, and then the rest of his head follows.

“I got matches to run, brother,” Drifter says, and tips his chin up at Malfeasance. “Mind givin’ me that back?”

Shin tilts his head, and Drifter thinks, _hook_.

There’s a carefully neutral look on Shin’s face as he flips Malfeasance in the air and the barrel thunks neatly into his palm. Drifter props an elbow up on the nearby workstation and turns his hand palm-up, eyebrows raised, expectant. Shin’s stuck either walking towards him or not giving the gun back. Honestly, either’s as likely as the other. Not like he doesn’t have the blueprints for Malf. Not like Shin doesn’t know he could make another one in a heartbeat.

It’s the principle of the thing.

Shin stands and takes one slow step towards him, and Drifter thinks, _line_.

Malfeasance’s grip is almost hot when Drifter closes his fingers around it. When he pulls, Shin doesn’t let the barrel slide through his fingers, just lets the momentum carry him forward, nudging Drifter’s knees further apart with a thigh.

Shin’s eyes are burning with challenge and Drifter thinks, _sinker_.

The fragile thing between them shatters into a haze of want and hands and Shin’s low voice in his ear and Drifter manages to spare just one stray thought to wonder how he ended up in this whole entire mess anyways before Shin presses up against him and cuts off all higher functions.

It’s rough, fast and angry, and Drifter finds vicious satisfaction in pushing every button he can reach at once, at knowing that the wild look in Shin’s eyes and the unguarded heat is there because of him, and he laughs a low, bitter laugh as Shin falls apart in his hands, shaking.

When Drifter transmats back to the Derelict without a word, Shin follows him on a secure frequency that hasn’t seen use for months. The frigid air warps around Shin as Drifter pins him down, Light flickering into sparks that threaten to catch at the slightest provocation, and Drifter takes all that fire and swallows it up, pushes Shin’s vest off and his shirt up as Shin works his pants back open and from there it should be a question of nothing but muscle memory, nothing but a map charted out on a repeat partner: how to turn him into a shivering mess in seconds, how to get him to beg or snap or push or pull, how to keep it rough and fast, a firefight in the sheets.

It _should_ be easy, simple, fast, but it's not. It's slow now, deliberate, less angry. Not tender by a long damn shot, not even close, but something like a thunderhead in the distance, threatening potential waiting to break loose. A wildfire's just a spark of lightning away, after all, and Drifter feels dangerously close to tinder as he sinks into Shin's touch, trembling and incandescent.

He’d forgotten the heady weight of Shin’s Light, the way it pulls at all of his limbs, makes him drunk on warmth. (He’d tried to forget, at least. Hadn’t worked.) Shin’s arm is trapped underneath him, and Drifter watches the deep rise and fall of his chest, the gleaming pinpricks of sweat still cooling on his skin as they both come down from the rush.

“Fuck you,” he eventually says.

Shin turns his head to look at him and frowns, but the slightest hint of a smile pulls at one corner of his mouth.

“Again?”

“No.” He pauses, then blows out a sigh. “...Maybe. Nah. Just fuck you, is all.”

Shin is silent. He shifts the arm under Drifter’s ribs but Drifter doesn’t relent, just lets him struggle until Shin huffs out a quiet, irritated noise and wrenches his arm into a better position. Not out from under him, though. Hot fingertips brush against Drifter’s back, and he shivers. He shifts and pins Shin’s arm again, earning him an annoyed grunt, and something jarringly cold brushes his arm in the process. Shin’s discarded vest, poking out from under Drifter’s robes.

The weave catches his eye and he tugs the vest out from under them both, running his hands over the PCB lining. Huh. Interesting socket configuration. Could work for his Prime sets.

“Eris,” Shin says by way of answer and, either taking that _fuck you_ literally or ignoring it completely, he noses against Drifter’s neck, breath warm as he presses a slow, lingering kiss against Drifter’s throat. Drifter shivers again. It's either a prelude to another round, or… it's not. He doesn't know which possibility he prefers, and _that_ is a little harrowing.

“Creepy gal, ain’t she?” Drifter muses, and it's not temperature that makes Drifter feel like he's on fire as Shin trails more slow kisses down, tracing an artery, free hand sliding around to the back of his neck. “Extra mod slot seems pointless if there’s no capacitor for it.”

“Less of a mod, more of a talisman,” Shin murmurs between kisses. “Found a way to make us more effective against the Nightmares. Fear, failure, vanity, pride, greed– idea is, you cleanse ‘em to weaponize ‘em.”

“Uh huh,” Drifter replies. Hard to sound skeptical about it when Shin’s mouth makes it to the hollow of his throat. Hard to focus on this armor.

“Works,” Shin insists, and pushes himself closer, finally freeing his trapped arm in the process. His skin is fever-hot and slightly sticky with sweat.

"Uh huh," Drifter repeats, definitely more distractedly than before, and Shin just hums in response, mouth drifting back up to the slope of Drifter's shoulder, body half-draped across his.

Drifter doesn't know how long he lies there in a haze, both of them silent save for their breaths. Somethin' about Solar Light keeps him warm without overheating. It's definitely not just Shin and has nothing to do with the embarrassingly loud thump of pulse in his own ears.

Drifter goes back to picking at the vest. He's gotten his hands on a few discarded pieces of armor in the past week, but none with this weird spare mod slot. The times, they sure are a-changin'.

...Huh. This configuration, no capacitor and all, could work with his Auras. Now _there's_ something to try. He feeds some Light through the circuits and maps out the pattern, then lets it fade and thinks. Move that socket over, try one of those transistors he found last week, maybe some helium filaments… yeah, _yeah_, this might just work.

Drifter pushes himself upright and Shin slumps down into the sheets, thoroughly unconscious. He doesn’t snore – Drifter was surprised at first, definitely came off as a snorer – but his mouth falls open, and even sleep can’t erase the slight furrow between his brows or the tired solemnity worked into every line of his face.

All things Drifter knew. All things he doesn’t need to pause to look at.

He shrugs on whatever robes he can reach, pulls on pants and boots, grabs a tablet, and heads to his workroom.

Whatever. Shin'll be gone when he comes back, anyways.

* * *

It’ll need some tweaking, but a few hours’ work and he was able to get a spare Sentry mark to hold an Aura charge alongside two other newly-made-standard mods without fizzling out, and he feels satisfied enough to leave it be for now and head back to update his blueprints. He can pick at it with fresh eyes later, once he’s overseen the day’s matches. Checked in with his favorites and the fresh meat back at the Annex. Gone back to routine. Forgotten about the… interruption.

Except.

_Except_.

There’s a bare arm flung out over the covers of his bed. The sound of soft, heavy breathing is audible even over the ever-present creak of the Derelict.

“Shin,” Drifter calls carefully, keeping his fucking distance. Hand to his heart, his shoulder still burns from that Golden Gunning earlier. Yesterday. Whenever. “Hey.”

Nothing. No movement, save the rise and fall of his chest.

“Shin,” he tries again, stepping closer. Almost to the edge of the bed now. Shin sleeps on, no change in his rhythm, no tension in his body. Drifter snorts and tosses the mark down onto his desk. How many people would believe him if he walked ‘round saying that the Man With The Golden Gun sleeps like a fuckin’ rock?

“_Malphur_."

Nothing.

"God damn.”

He doesn't know that the hell possesses him to do it, but he sits down on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch Shin. He's warm. The whole room is warm, easily five or six degrees warmer than the rest of the ship, maybe more, and Shin sleeps on, tangled up in messy sheets.

"You're a real sonuvabitch," Drifter says quietly. "You know that?" It's easier to talk at him when he's unconscious and not listening and not _looking_ at him with a goddamn galaxy of unspoken things in his eyes. "Leavin' without a word and now this. Ha, ha. Leavin' without the Word."

He reaches down, intending to jostle Shin awake, his own safety be damned, but instead his fingers are drawn to the nape of his neck, the hair that falls there haphazardly. He’s so warm. Drifter almost wants to lie back down next to him. Almost. Shin’s fingers twitch against the sheets, sparks flickering, and his frown deepens.

"You're a wreck, brother," Drifter murmurs, and his fingers slide up of their own accord, carding through Shin's hair. "Kinda like it that way, though."

Shin stirs without warning and takes a long, slow breath as he turns into Drifter’s hand, eyes barely cracked open and bleary in the weak, shitty light.

Drifter freezes.

Shin looks steadily at him, still half-asleep, and it feels well and truly damning.

“Thought you’d’a left,” Drifter says carefully, after the staring contest has gone on for long enough.

“Nah,” Shin mumbles, and turns his face further into Drifter’s palm. Drifter can barely make out his next words, but he feels Shin’s lips move as he speaks. “Not leavin’.”

“Oh, yeah?” Drifter replies, and his voice sounds all funny in his ears. Weird. He doesn’t recall Shin reaching up, but those familiar hands are tugging him down with an inevitable weight, pushing under his robes and against his chest, up over his shoulder, and Drifter is kneeling over Shin before he knows it, drawn down by the promise of warmth.

“Yeah,” Shin hums, closing his eyes as Drifter gives in to the impulse to kiss him, slow, like he always pretends he never has, like he wishes he didn’t want to. Shin lets out a content sigh – familiar – as Drifter mirrors him and presses a row of kisses under his jaw, down his neck, to the base of his throat. Reverent. Slow. _Fuck it_. Not like this world’s got much time left, anyways. Not by his clock, or by Theirs. Ain’t no sense in denying himself what he wants.

“So, not leavin’?” Drifter asks as Shin tips his head back with another sigh and curls his fingers into Drifter’s hair.

He figures it’s as much of an apology as he needs when Shin repeats himself and murmurs, “Not leavin’.”


End file.
